


How to Woo an Angel

by muzakchan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, just some good ol' fashioned kissin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muzakchan/pseuds/muzakchan
Summary: “Angel,” Crowley drawls as Aziraphale puts the pasty in his mouth. “You know all aboutlove, don’t you?”The way he says the L-word, withsuchcontempt (it almost sounds forced, but perhaps that’s Aziraphale’s wishful thinking). The angel can see the word, italicised for no good reason, as it leaves Crowley’s lips and makes its way into his brain.Aziraphale chokes on his food.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 280
Collections: Hot Omens





	How to Woo an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> A cute little (wordy) one-shot about them getting together and enjoying each other :) 
> 
> This hasn't been beta-ed, so please let me know if you see anything that needs fixing!

“Angel,” Crowley drawls as Aziraphale puts the pasty in his mouth. “You know all about _love_ , don’t you?” 

The way he says the L-word, with _such_ contempt (it almost sounds forced, but perhaps that’s Aziraphale’s wishful thinking). The angel can see the word, italicised for no good reason, as it leaves Crowley’s lips and makes its way into his brain. 

Aziraphale chokes on his food. 

Crowley snaps his fingers, pulling the miracle up from Hell (yet another way in which they differ), and Aziraphale is no longer choking. On the food, at least. 

“I-I suppose,” Aziraphale agrees. He looks at Crowley, dares to makes eye contact. “Why do you ask, my dear?”

Things have been _different_ (italicisation used for a good reason here) since the Not-pocalypse. Their routines haven’t changed, but _something_ has. There’s a tension. A pull that wasn’t there before. Like dogs barking viciously at one another, their need to _tear into one another_ stymied only by the fence between them. 

_But what happens if the fence is removed?_

Crowley isn’t answering. In fact, he isn’t looking at Aziraphale anymore. His face has turned red. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, turning his head slightly. 

“I, erm,” Crowley begins. His voice is shaking. “I have a date tonight.” 

The angel sucks in a breath; _date_ strikes him hard and fast, harder than the L-word did. 

No, Aziraphale realizes quickly, that’s not quite it - _date_ is not the problem with that sentence; it is the idea, the _fact_ that Crowley has a _date_ with someone who is not Aziraphale (not that _he_ wants to go on a date with Crowley; that’s preposterous). He has a date with _someone else_. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, smiling at his companion. “Congratulations, my dear boy! Who is the lucky suitor?” He’s not sure where the smile came from, but it’s there now (if he stops smiling, he might cry; better by far to smile). 

“Someone I’ve known for a while,” Crowley says. He’s fiddling with the tea cup on the table, rolling it in his palms, paying very close attention to the cup, paying very little attention to Aziraphale. The liquid (very little tea, mostly vodka - just the way Crowley likes it) rolls in the cup, but does not spill out. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. Asking “Who do you know but me?” seems uncouth, so he instead says, “What do you need to know?” 

Crowley’s attention snaps back, away from the cup, to the angel. It is a subtle shift. He does not look at the angel - in fact, he does not move at all - but Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to understand when the demon is and is not paying attention to him. 

He takes a moment to study his companion: Crowley’s mouth is open, cheeks red, fingers clutching the cup (this is Aziraphale’s favorite set). The question appears to be on the tip of his tongue, but he cannot (or will not?) say it. 

_They have been held back for so long, but the fence is gone and no one is watching._

“I don’t know how to kiss,” Crowley eventually says to the teacup. A drop of liquid spills onto the table.

At this, Aziraphale laughs. He has to. There is too much tension in the room (and in him) for him to do anything other than laugh. 

“Don’t laugh!” Crowley says, finally looking up at the angel. There is a hint of a suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“My dear!” Aziraphale exclaims, reaching across the divide in their seating arrangements and placing a hand on Crowley’s arm. “6000 years and you’ve never learned to kiss?” 

(In theory, the touch was meant as a friendly gesture. In practice, it does not feel that way.)

(Has Crowley always been so warm?) 

“I have!” Crowley protests, slamming down the teacup defiantly. He does not pull away from Aziraphale’s touch. “I just… 

“It’s this bloody notion of _romance_ , angel,” Crowley admits. Confides. _Confesses._ “If there’s someone to _fuck_ ," (Aziraphale shivers at this), "I can do that, but romance is harder. Finicky. Lots to go wrong.” 

Aziraphale nods. He does not move his hand.

Crowley is not looking at him anymore when he says, “I need help.” 

Aziraphale nods again. “Help with kissing someone, romantically?” He does not move his hand. 

Crowley nods. He does not move his arm. 

“Right,” Aziraphale nods for a third time; he needs to do something else than nod. He moves his hand down Crowley’s arm, finding the hand attached to it, and he takes it (does not interlace his fingers, though; that would be improper). They stand. 

“What sort of romance does your paramour enjoy?” Aziraphale asks. Their hands are still clasped.

“There’s _types_?!” 

“Yes, my dear.” He smiles. (He cannot stop thinking about how _hot_ Crowley’s hand feels in his.)

Crowley thinks. “Well,” he says eventually. “We take walks together, and drink together, and I bring them little gifts and presents, but I’m not sure how to take the next step.” 

(For how clever Aziraphale is, he can be incredibly dense.)

“Oh,” Aziraphale exclaims, smiling at Crowley; a small sigh of relief passes through his lips. “Sounds as though you’ve only been flirting!” 

“I’m not even certain they know I’m flirting,” he says, despondent. “How do I let them know?”

A nasty thought passes through Aziraphale’s mind then - _sabotage?_ If he gives Crowley _bad_ information, then Crowley wouldn’t be with that person. He’d be free to be with - well, someone else. 

No, Aziraphale can’t do that; he could never ruin a chance at happiness for Crowley. 

“You’re certain they return your feelings, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. 

Crowley looks at him then, searching his eyes. Aziraphale is not certain, for what, he is searching, but he feels as though he is under a microscope. Exposed. Naked. (Though not quite in the way he’d like to be.)

_Do they give in to their urges or do they turn away?_

“Yes,” Crowley answers eventually. “I am.” 

“Then, I would say: kiss them,” Aziraphale tells him confidently. (It’s worked for him in the past.) 

The red falls out of Crowley’s face like mercury in a tub of water; Aziraphale does not know where all that blood goes, but it goes in a hurry. 

“I-I-I,” Crowley stutters. (He is trying to figure out if he should say “I don’t think I can,” or “I don’t think I should”; neither one is true.) Eventually, he whispers, “I don’t know how.” Then, after a loud clearing of the throat, he adds, “Romantically, I mean.” 

Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand another squeeze. “May I show you what’s worked for me?” 

Crowley’s glasses slip down his nose a fraction, exposing his golden eyes, as his mouth falls open. The demon’s pupils have grown in size, expanding to take in more of the scene in front of him. He nods crookedly, unseating his glasses all the more. 

“Right.” (It is a good thing Crowley did not say anything in response, because Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the rushing of blood in his own ears.) 

Looking about, Aziraphale leads Crowley to the nearest wall, guiding him gently _just_ so, so that the demon is resting with his back upon the wall. He lets go of Crowley’s hand then (only because he will be touching the demon again very soon).

“Right,” Aziraphale repeats. “First thing’s first: you should be close to your _paramour_.” The angel takes a step closer; there’s barely any room between them (the kiss or kill rule is in effect). 

“If it were me,” Aziraphale continues, trying so _so_ hard to sound casual and unaffected. “I would place my hands on their hips, like so.” He punctuates his sentence with an action, taking Crowley’s hips in his own. 

They’re so _thin_ ; his hands curve around the demon’s hips, far more angled than his own. But not frail; oh no, he’s not frail. Crowley is _strong_ and _hot_ and _alive_ and without realizing it, Aziraphale draws him further in. Further than he meant to (but not as far as he wanted to). Now it’s not just Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s hips, now it’s Aziraphale’s _hips_ on Crowley’s hips. 

_No fence now. No excuses._

Crowley hisses at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t touch Aziraphale, but his hips rock forward. His arms are held unnaturally stiff by his sides, his hands clenching. This close, Aziraphale can see through the sunglasses perched on Crowley’s nose; his eyes are closed. 

“Right,” Aziraphale repeats again. His brain is not working properly. Crowley is _so warm_. 

They are so close, Aziraphale feels the need to speak quietly (snake ears are very sensitive, after all). “Then I would put my hand on their jaw,” he says. It is so hard to whisper casually. 

The angel places a hand on the demon’s jaw, reaching up, realizing their height difference as he does so. He tips Crowley’s head down just a bit, to make it easier to reach for him (if _they_ were to kiss - not that they would! - the angel would ascend and the demon would have to come down). 

He can feel Crowley’s heartbeat racing underneath his fingertips. It gallops, increasing ever so slightly with every repetition, like a drumbeat before the announcement of a large award. 

Without thinking, he runs his thumb over Crowley’s lips. They are soft and warm (and Aziraphale wonders if he tastes the same way he smells). 

Crowley stiffens (in many ways at once; it is now apparent where blood from his face got off to). Up til this point, he’d been pliable, allowing the angel to do as he pleased, meeting his every advance, but this gesture changes him. 

Aziraphale knows instantly he’s crossed a line ( _he’s_ gone too fast). The angel steps back - he retreats - putting space between them once again. “And then, well,” he coughs, not looking at Crowley. “You can imagine where that would go.” He is unable to look at Crowley. “That’d be my advice for you; should work on anyone.”

There is a small noise of acknowledgement from Crowley. Aziraphale does not look at him. There are footsteps, moving away from the wall and away from Aziraphale. Then, the tell-tale tinkling of the shop bell as Crowley opens the door, and the tinkling of the bell as the door closes. 

The bookshop is quiet. 

Aziraphale staggers over to the most overstuffed chair in the shop and sinks down into its waiting arms. “Oh,” he moans, putting his head in his hands. “Oh.” 

_Sometimes, we are not prepared for what’s on the other side of the fence._

* * *

Crowley stands in front of the bookshop door, box of chocolates in one hand, heart pumping blood at ninety miles an hour through his body. His face (his lips) still feel warm from where Aziraphale’s hand was. 

He hadn’t been _ready_. 

The shop said _CLOSED_ , but that never stopped him before, and it wasn’t going to stop him this time. 

He pushes the door open and steps into the bookshop, a motion he’d done a million times before (and will do a million times more). It is so familiar to him, but now, now there is new context. 

“I’m afraid we’re quite closed, th - oh!” Aziraphale stops short when he sees Crowley in the middle of the room. “Crowley,” he says. There is hope in his voice (Crowley hopes). 

“Hi, Aziraphale.” 

They do not move. There was so much movement earlier that now movement seems arduous. They are at a stalemate. 

_They try again._

“Brought chocolates,” Crowley says, shaking the box in his hand a little. Just enough to rattle the contents. (Food always brings Aziraphale back to his side.)

“Yes,” Aziraphale nods, unmoving. “Thank you, my dear.” 

(The angel hasn’t moved, but the nickname is promising.)

“They’re your favorite, angel.” Crowley smiles - this is a peace offering, after all. 

“Crowley, I -” Aziraphale starts to say something, but then appears to think better of it. Then he thinks better of thinking better, and says, “I’m sorry.”

The demon takes a step forward (he ends the stalemate). “Angel, no, you have _nothing_ to apologize for.” 

“But I do!” 

Crowley takes another step forward. 

“You were simply looking for advice on how to _woo_ someone, and I went too far.”

Another step.

“I shouldn’t have let my feelings get in -” 

Crowley has reached Aziraphale. “Your feelings?”

Now, Aziraphale is bright red. “Did I say ‘my feelings’?”

“You did.” Crowley is nearly on top of him now. Aziraphale takes a step back, making room between them (unnecessary room). 

“I meant, I _meant_ to say th-that I shouldn’t have let my _interest_ in -”

(This is almost too easy.) “Oh, your interest?” Crowley wants to ask interest in _whom_ , but he is starting to suspect he knows the answer. 

He continues his advance. Aziraphale continues his retreat. 

“Not necessarily an _interest_ , but well, oh!” Aziraphale’s rambling is cut off as they reach a wall of the bookshop. The angel is caught. 

_They know what’s on the other side now; now it is about curiosity - about interest - not anger._

Crowley places the box of chocolates down, never taking his eyes off of Aziraphale. “Say what you mean to say, angel,” Crowley says, smirking. He has Aziraphale right where he wants him. (Well, almost right where he wants him.)

“Oh, Crowley, I - I know I went _too fast_ , but I just - oh!” Aziraphale fiddles nervously with his hands, turning the rings on his fingers. “Oh, I just want you to be _happy_ , my dear boy!” 

Crowley’s smirk becomes an actual smile, all malice gone. “You want me to be happy?” 

Aziraphale looks tortured. “Yes! That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and if you’ll be happiest with me or with someone else, I don’t rightly care!” Exasperation seeps from the angel. 

“Happy with you?” Crowley repeats in a quiet voice. He takes a step in towards the angel, closing the distance between them. (The kiss or kill rule is in effect.)

“I know it’s preposterous - an _angel_ and a _demon_ \- but -”

Crowley hushes him by placing his hands on the angel’s hips. They’re so _luscious_ ; his hands curve around the angel’s hips, far more rounded than his own. His fingers splay and clutch and enjoy. Aziraphale is _strong_ and _hot_ and _alive_ and without realizing it, Crowley draws him further in. All the way in, and now their hips meet once again. 

_It’s better this time; easier._

Aziraphale gasps at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. After a moment, he looks up at Crowley, mouth parted slightly.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks quietly. 

Crowley’s brain is not working properly. “What’s next, angel?” he whispers. His glasses are still on his face, but that is a problem for later. 

The angel places a hand on the demon’s jaw, reaching up, recreating the scene from earlier. 

The angel will ascend and the demon will have to come down. 

Crowley mirrors Aziraphale’s action, placing his own hand on the angel’s jaw. It feels so perfect in his hand. 

He runs a thumb over Aziraphale’s lips; they are soft and warm and Crowley wonders if he tastes the same way he smells. 

Neither one freezes this time. 

_They move together._

They kiss. Lips part and tongues dance. Hands move from face to hip to hair to unmentionable places. 

_There are no more barriers between them._

They are together. 

Later, after they are finished and the chocolate has found its way into the bedroom, Aziraphale sits bolt up in the bed. “My dear, didn’t you have a date tonight?” 

(For how clever Aziraphale is, he can be incredibly dense.)

Crowley smiles at him and waits for a few moments, for the realization to come, for the - 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, answering his own question, color returning to his cheeks. 

“There it is,” Crowley drawls playfully. He pulls the angel back down into the bed, curling back up in his arms. “Who better to ask how you like to be, what was it? _Wooed?_ ”

Aziraphale nods sheepishly. 

“Right - who better to ask how you like to be _wooed_ than you?” 

“You wiley serpent,” Aziraphale says. It’s not an admonishment; it’s a loving jibe. The blush is still in his cheeks. He looks utterly beautiful. 

“Won’t do it again,” Crowley promises, kissing Aziraphale’s stomach. (He could kiss the angel’s body for hours.)

“No, you won’t,” Aziraphale agrees. “Now I know better.” 

Crowley looks up at the angel, rising to meet him, to kiss him again. “I should hope so, angel.” They kiss. “I should really hope so.” 


End file.
